


White Rose

by KASE1248



Category: Original Work
Genre: Developing Relationship, F/M, First Kiss, Fluff, Language of Flowers, Nameless Characters, Never Beta Read, Not Beta Read, flower symbolism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-28
Updated: 2019-09-28
Packaged: 2020-10-30 00:41:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20805665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KASE1248/pseuds/KASE1248
Summary: “There’s just… something about white roses that really gets me. They symbolize purity and innocence; white roses are probably my favourite.”





	White Rose

**Author's Note:**

> I don't really know where this came from tbh -- pure fluff isn't usually my style -- but I wrote it in a couple of hours, then rewrote it in a couple of hours and here we are. Apparently I've been in a bit of a sappy mood lately.
> 
> Still it was nice to flex the old writing skill.

“Hey,” her voice greets him from behind, warm and cheerful as always. “I was wondering where you were.”

He glances up from tending to his flowers – watering, weeding, small amounts of pruning – and nods his head at her. “Hey.”

She smiles warmly at him; her eyes glitter in the sunlight as she surveys his growing garden. His flowers are in full bloom in the warm July sun, filling the flowerbed to the brim with colour and fragrance. It’s oh so vibrant and beautiful and he’s so proud of it, of all the work he’s put into it. A warm feeling settles in his chest whenever he thinks about it: this garden is his and his alone, and he made it all on his own.

“Oh, wow, check out your roses,” her face lights up brighter than the sun when she spots the red blooms. “They’re huge. Way better than the picture on the packet.” She leans in to smell them; her finger tips the head of one gently. The deep red petals reflect like a blush against her skin. “Totally my colour too,” she grins at him.

He snips a dead steam off of a growing bush. She sits down on the grass across from him and steals his watering can; she carefully trickles the water over a patch of dry plants he hasn’t yet tended to.

He takes a moment to shift to his feet and examines the roses himself. There’s one that’s growing slightly taller and plumper than all the rest. He frees it from his garden and holds it out to her. She blinks up at him but takes the gift with a growing smile.

“Oh, wow, thank you,” she blushes for real this time, pressing her nose into the deep red petals and closing her eyes against the sun. “It’s beautiful.”

“Yeah,” he agrees but he’s looking at her, “it is.”

*

“Red roses are a popular gift to show someone that you love them,” she says, and he pointedly does _not_ think too much about that. “They symbolize passion and desire and intensity. Plus they’re beautiful, and red’s the colour of love, y’know?”

“But?” he encourages, sensing the thoughts in her head.

“Well, nothing, really,” she twirls the flower through her delicate fingers. “It’s a beautiful flower. And red has always been my colour.” She hesitates. “There’s just… something about white roses that really gets me. They're supposed to symbolize purity and innocence; but there’s just something so… simple and delicate about them. White roses are probably my favourite.”

She finds a vase to fill with water so she can display her single red rose.

He wonders where he could find seeds to grow white ones.

*

He spends more time watching her than he does the movie.

It’s some animated film that she loves, so of course they agreed to watch it: she never really asks for anything, so none of them like saying no when she does.

The light from the TV illuminates her face. She’s so incredibly expressive, responding to every scene, every line in the movie. She laughs at the jokes, mouths the words of the songs, cries when the characters give up on their dreams. Smiles oh so brightly when they get their happy ending, like she’s living in the very movie and not just watching it on a sofa.

She wears her heart on her sleeve with everything, he thinks.

It leaves her vulnerable sometimes; people take advantage of her and leave wounds that never really heal. But she still never really stops opening herself up.

He hurt her once, a long time ago. Took advantage of her vulnerability to attack her. At the time, he hadn’t really known any better. But now, when he looks back, he hates that he hurt her, forced her to cover herself up around him.

Watching her now, the light catching her eyes in the most awestruck expression, he’s eternally grateful that he gets to see this side of her again.

When the credits roll, she leans back in her seat and flashes him a happy smile.

And he smiles back.

*

He cultivates one single white rose in the privacy of his bedroom.

He has good windows for light. They overlook the rest of his garden, where he can watch the sea of red roses: a dozen ways to tell someone you love her.

He wants to keep this a secret, in case it doesn’t grow so well the first time.

(That’s what he tells himself anyway.)

(He really just wants to see the look on her face when he presents her with a fully bloomed white rose.)

*

“I’d love to have my own herb garden one day,” she says, somewhat wistfully.

She’s helping tend his garden again: she’s the only one with permission to touch his flowers because she’s the one who got him interested in gardening in the first place.

“Yeah?”

She nods. “As a Wiccan, it’d help me be close with nature. As a witch, I’d use them for spells and rituals. As a cook, they’d help spice up the flavour of my meals. And it’d be handy to have them all nearby, instead of relying on the grocery store or the internet. Plus I think it’d just be really cool.” She huffs softly in a regretful manner. “Maybe if I ever get a house with a proper backyard.”

He thinks about this as he weeds his garden. Her birthday’s coming up soon; and Hallowe’en will be soon after that. Maybe he can buy her one of those windowsill herb gardens for her apartment. Just somewhere for her to start off.

He thinks about the smile she’d give him if he did.

*

When he gives her the white rose, she laughs happily. “Aw, you bought me a white rose. That’s so sweet, thank you.”

“No,” he corrects. “I grew it.”

She hesitates, stroking the delicate white petals. “You grew me a white rose?”

He nods. “Yeah.”

She blushes deeper than any red rose he could grow. “You grew me a white rose. Is this because I told you they were my favourite? I can’t believe you remembered that. I didn’t even mean for you to actually grow one. Because I love your red ones, you know I do.” She looks like she’s about to cry, her smile so wide and bright and loving. “This is beautiful.”

_Yeah_ he agrees, _you are_.

*

“You’re my white rose,” he tells her.

The words come out of the blue; he’s not even sure why he said them.

(It’s the look on her face, when she unwraps her windowsill herb garden. She just looks so… stunned, like she can’t believe he listens to her and cares that much about her to buy her such a present. They’ve known each other for years, he’s bought her plenty of gifts, they all have, and she still can’t believe it. Hell, his dad even formally adopted her for one birthday, just to give her a proper family, and she still. Can’t. Believe it.)

She looks up from her present to blink at him. “Sorry?”

“You’re my white rose,” he repeats, the words sticking in his throat. He flushes under her gaze, scowls at the ground. It’s harder when it’s intentional.

Confusion creases the edge of her eyes. “Oh?”

“Because you love white roses and I–” he cuts himself off before he says it. His heart races in his chest, he almost can’t breathe. He nearly chickens out of saying anything else until he sees the look on her face.

She looks more vulnerable than he’s ever seen; more soft and gentle and patient as she watches him. There’s this realization dawning on her face; but it’s the hopefulness that follows that hits him in the chest.

Now he _needs_ to tell her.

Now he can’t find the words.

He lifts his hand, brushes his rough, somewhat calloused fingers across the soft, clean skin of her cheek. She turns ever so slightly into the touch.

“You’re my white rose,” he says, slowly, carefully, “because you love white roses… and I love you.”

The smile she gives him is soft and small and so beautiful that it blinds him. He smooths his fingers along her jawline.

She draws close to him until they’re less than a breath apart. His hand curls gently around her jaw and he closes the gap between them.

When they kiss, it’s soft and gentle. It’s not heavy or electric or intense. It’s sweet and colourful and emotional. He doesn’t feel fireworks, he feels a warmth spreading through him like hot chocolate on a winter’s day, or a warm July sun in his garden. It’s simple and delicate: like a white rose.

It’s perfect.

(“You’re my white rose too,” she whispers.)

*

(Later he sees the rose in her kitchen, as beautiful as the day he gifted it to her.)

(_It should be dead now_, he thinks. It’s been weeks, but it still smells as fresh as the day he picked it from his garden.)

(She laughs when he asks her about it. “I might have accidentally blessed it with eternal life when you gave it to me. Because I was really happy.”)

(And if that doesn’t tell you everything you need to know about her, then he doesn’t know what will.)

**Author's Note:**

> This was so sweet I now feel sick. I'm going to have to go kill someone off in another story to feel better!
> 
> Full disclosure: the male character is low-key based on a canon character from one of my fandoms, whom I _do_ ship with my OC; but I don't know how well that would be received within the fandom, so I am placing this under the original tag for anonymity.
> 
> Also the animated movie was SING.


End file.
